the true time of year
by Cora Clavia
Summary: It's a question he only somewhat remembers asking that leads John to the missing piece. Post-ep for 2x8, Conversion.


i love you much (most beautiful darling)  
more than anyone on the earth and i  
like you better than everything in the sky

ee cummings

* * *

Nighttime in Atlantis is deep and cool, quiet but for the light hum of a living city and the soft, distant sound of the waves. It's usually easy to fall asleep.

John lies in his bed, wide awake, staring up at the ceiling.

His body has recovered from the unfortunate experience of mutating into a bug; he's still a little tired, but he's one hundred percent human, and that's really the salient point.

The entire episode is one he's filed under "really weird stuff" in his life, and while Teyla's graciously forgiven him and the wall in Elizabeth's office has been replaced, there's one last spectre he hasn't been able to put away. There's something he's missing.

He did something else.

Sleep is eluding him, so he shuffles to the bathroom, the floor cool under his bare feet, and stares at the mirror.

It's a question he only somewhat remembers asking that leads John to the missing piece.

 _Did I hurt anyone?_

 _Not seriously_.

Elizabeth doesn't deflect. Not with him. At the time he was already too far gone to think about what she might be hiding behind the careful not-lie, but now, as he splashes water on his face and towels off, something flickers in his memory.

It's just a moment, nothing more than the faint edges of tactile recollection. His hand balls up reflexively. _No_. No, no no.

But the memory is there, even if it's hazy, and as he remembers curling his hand around her slim throat and _squeezing_ there's a wave of revulsion that travels up his chest, through his esophagus, lodges just behind his tongue, and there's no way he's going to get to sleep just yet.

* * *

Elizabeth is just deep enough into the warm layers of sleep to flinch when she hears the door chime.

She sits bolt upright, her heart pounding at the shock of being jolted awake, but if it were an emergency, there would be alarms going off. So it's probably not serious.

"Elizabeth? You awake?"

It's John. The tension in her body relaxes a fraction. Almost certainly not serious, if he's taking the time and consideration to ask if she's awake.

Maybe they need different door chime tones. A variety, ranging from _Life-threatening danger_ to _Potential serious crisis_ to _Important issue but minimal risk of death_. It'd certainly clarify the appropriate level of panic in any given situation.

"Elizabeth?"

"Come in." She scoots back against her headboard, pulling her knees against her chest. He's been quiet ever since he got out of the infirmary. Just quiet enough to worry her.

The door opens and she blinks at the sudden glare of light. "Sorry," he murmurs, ever aware, even before she says anything. "Sorry. I'll get the lights."

Sure enough, the room immediately comes to a soft, dim half-glow, gentler on her eyes, and she looks up again to find John standing just inside the door, hands in his pockets. Sheepish posture. Not normal for him.

His hair is more mussed than usual. _He needs a haircut_ , she notes with tired amusement. But then, he always looks like he needs a haircut.

John has a look about him she recognizes - it's taut, uneasy, something that's eating at him, something he's been trying to ignore but can't. And whatever it is, it's bothering him enough that he can't wait until morning.

She scrubs her hands over her face. "Is something wrong?"

"You lied."

"What?" She's still a little groggy, but legitimately, Elizabeth has no idea what he's talking about.

"You said I didn't hurt anyone."

He didn't -

 _Oh_. That.

"John -"

"I almost killed you."

She doesn't know exactly how to explain the fact that it's okay, really, because judging from his face, and the fact he had to come talk about this in the wee small hours, it's not okay.

"You weren't even going to tell me, were you?"

"I don't blame you. I know it wasn't you."

"Yes, it was."

"John."

"It's running through my mind," he says quietly, staring at his hands. "Do you have any idea what it feels like to crush someone's throat?"

She lets out a breath.

"Because I do." He fixes her with a keen look. "I remember exactly how it felt. You have a thin neck."

A chill runs through her skin, curling through her veins, because she _knows_ John. He's a protective man. She's seen the tension that ripples through him when something's wrong, the slightest tics in his body language when he senses trouble. He unconsciously moves to shield others. Especially her.

He needs something. Not her forgiveness - she doesn't blame him, and he knows that. He needs to forgive himself.

"Come here." He looks at her skeptically, and Elizabeth sighs. "John. It's two in the morning. I'm tired. Sit down."

John hesitates but obeys, settling gingerly on the edge of her bed. It's strikingly domestic, and for a long moment she wonders if this is too intimate. There's a softness in the air, something gentler and small, like there's nothing beyond these walls.

But that's always what it is, she muses. Even in a crowded room, all it takes is a glance, and the distance between them vanishes. There's nothing else.

"Give me your hands."

He pauses. "Why?"

"Just do it."

He looks skeptical, but reaches out anyway, palms up. She traces his hands lightly, watching the barely-suppressed shiver that runs through him at her touch.

His skin is back to normal, she notices idly. Smooth and unblemished, no sign of the rough scaly texture she remembers. Even his nails are remarkably clean and tidy, something she wouldn't have expected.

"'Lizabeth?"

She blinks. Right. Focus. "You know I trust you, right?"

"Elizabeth -"

" _Right?"_

He grumbles. "Yeah."

Slowly, deliberately, she takes his right hand and places it on her throat. He tries to pull away, but she tightens her grip on his wrist. "Humor me, John."

He meets her eyes and she feels a moment of guilt - he _hates_ this, it's obvious - but to his credit, he doesn't leave, doesn't pull away.

She lets go, taking a deep breath

His thumb brushes over her carotid artery, following the line of her throat down to the flutter of her pulse point.

John licks his lips absently, and heat flushes through her skin. He does it a lot, but the effect right now, in the dim light of her bedroom, is...distracting.

"It didn't even bruise."

Even his voice is low and soft, that gravelly, hushed tone that sounds far too intimate, and it takes her a moment to answer. "It didn't really hurt."

His hand leaves her throat, and she anticipates the loss, but John surprises her. He traces the line of her jaw, curving around to her ear, tucking her hair behind it with a tenderness that makes her catch her breath.

"If I -" his voice breaks - "I never would have forgiven myself."

"I know."

She knows he writes a letter to the family every single time he loses a soldier. He takes things personally.

His hand is still on her face, cupping her cheek with a gentleness that almost shocks her. Normally, their touch is fleeting and casual; a hand on the arm, a touch on the shoulder. Simple. Comfortable.

This is different.

It was just supposed to be a little moment, something to show him he's not a monster and he needs to forgive himself, but it's turning into something more. Something she doesn't let herself think about in the light of day. But in the warm half-light, it's not so threatening, though if she were looking at it rationally, she'd know it's far more dangerous.

Of course, like this, it hardly seems strange when suddenly his mouth is on hers.

She kisses him so softly it doesn't feel real, just a whisper of her lips on his, and it might be a terrible idea but here in the soft moonlit quiet of her bedroom, it doesn't feel like it.

One kiss turns into two, then three, then John buries his hands in her hair and nips lightly at her bottom lip and she loses count. If it started as a slightly over-the-line expression of platonic friendship, that moment is gone, and her whole world is reduced to her bed and the faint light cast around them and John Sheppard kissing her so deeply she can't breathe.

When he finally pulls away, she's panting, her heart pounding in her chest. She feels flushed, her entire body warm and loose and alight.

John blinks. "I didn't - I mean -" he looks abashed - "I didn't come here to - you know."

Elizabeth lets out a soft laugh. "I know." She smoothes her hand over his shoulder, squeezing gently. "I know." He came here to punish himself. For doing something he couldn't control, for which she's never blamed him.

"I should go." He runs his hands through his hair, doing nothing to tame it. "I - yeah."

Part of her wants him to stay, but Elizabeth knows better. "Impulsive" isn't her style, and making out in the privacy of her quarters is about as far as she's willing to rebel, at least for tonight.

"See you at breakfast?" she offers. It's the closest she can get to _Let's pick up on this later_.

As usual, John reads her subtext like it was printed out. "You, me, and whatever coffee we have." His smile is genuine, and there's an air of relief around him, his shoulders looser than they were when he showed up at her door.

She's fairly sure the last five minutes have just changed everything.

He rubs his hands on his knees like he's trying to bring himself to leave, and finally looks back at her. "Promise me one thing?"

"What?"

"If I ever turn into a bug again, remind me to stay away from people." He pauses. "And glass walls."

"Deal."

He leans in for one last kiss, long and slow and drugging, before he finally tears himself away. Elizabeth knots her hands to stop from reaching for him.

"Good night." Her voice comes out softer than she'd realized, and when he hesitates at the door and looks back, his eyes are dark.

"See you in the morning."


End file.
